


The Ways of Service

by Kyele



Series: Ways and Paths [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: AU, Conditioning, D/s undertones, Dark, M/M, Nipple Play, Public Sex, Training, Voyeurism, d'Artagnan is still young and innocent but Athos is working on that last part, slightly less under in this part than in the previous one, they may just be D/s tones at this point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:17:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2644712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos and d'Artagnan at the siege of La Rochelle. </p>
<p>
  <i>“Tonight begins a new lesson,” Athos murmurs. “Your pleasure is not the primary object.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ways of Service

**Author's Note:**

> Set some indeterminate amount of time after the previous fic. D'Artagnan's education continues.
> 
> The public sex tag refers to OMCs. The vouyerism tag technically refers to everyone present but particularly to yet another OMC whose primary sexual preference is vouyerism. The other tags are for our boys.
> 
> Also, fair warning, Aramis and Porthos spend the entire fic offscreen. Sorry. I wasn't ready yet to write about the fallout from the previous fic. That's probably coming at some point, though, since this seems to be a series now.

Around the Musketeers’ encampment at the siege of La Rochelle, the fires are burning low. It’s late. Overhead the sky is spread like a velvet curtain, glittering with stars, vast and terrible and limitless. Beneath it, the campfires of the French army are a faint mirror. A merchant woman’s paste jewels trying vainly to compete with a Duchess’ gems. And yet even false jewels will shine brightly enough when there are no better to be had.

Athos used to have jewels. Land, title, and property. So did most of his fellow Musketeers. He’d set them aside when they joined the regiment. But the shadow of his former life clings to him, trailing like a cloak, waiting for the day when he sets the Musketeer’s uniform aside in its turn and resumes his rightful place.

The Musketeers are not a place where one comes to truly be remade. They’re merely a temporary respite. One day most men here will leave. They’ll take up the reins of their old life and leave their space to the next young nobleman who needs to wash away his past.

But as long as he wears the cloak, he is only Athos. The anonymity and the freedom are better coin than all of the wealth and power of his noble title. As the Comte de la Fere, his life was and will be ruled by obligation. As Athos, he may have anything he wants.

D’Artagnan emerges from the darkness outside their squad’s campfire, returning from the well with two buckets slung over his shoulders. He sees Athos watching him and flushes slightly, red in the firelight, but doesn’t come to him immediately. First he takes the buckets to the wooden basin set near their fire’s mess tent and places them carefully within. He’s the youngest recruit in their squad, which makes several tasks his. Fetching water is one of them, as is being first awake, stoking the fire, and starting breakfast for the ten Musketeers who comprise their squad.

“I don’t know how you can stand to let him out of your sight,” Havet says to Athos from across the campfire. Sitting by the fireside now late at night, all the day’s work done and with no prospect of action for another week at least, the other Musketeer lazes indolently on one of the logs they’d arrayed around the fire as benches. His breeches are undone, and his Brasseur kneels between his thighs, head bobbing and throat working. Brasseur is no longer a novice – no more than D’Artagnan – but the relationships formed in a young man’s novitiate often last for years past, until the teacher or the student leave the service entirely.

“You should try learning patience sometime,” Laflèche suggests. He’s the oldest Musketeer in their mess, and he sits alone, as is his custom. Any close companions he’s had have already left the King’s military and gone back to their original lives. Laflèche may be one of the rare men who stay in the Musketeers. He has a younger brother, Athos knows; Laflèche could pass on his title and lands, and remain an anonymous soldier.

“Bah,” Havet says succintly, reaching down to tug Brasseur’s long dark hair.

D’Artagnan sets down the last of his buckets and turns towards Athos questioningly. Athos beckons to him. The young Gascon flushes, eyes darting to Brasseur and Havet, but comes obediently over.

This far from Paris, all the rules change. In the capitol a man must wear many hats. Athos is a noble in hiding, a husband, a Catholic, a Musketeer, and a teacher. All of those roles require his attention. More, they require his propriety and his circumspection. In the heirarchy of society, the relationship between a teacher and student is the least important. Athos’ duty to his king is first, followed closely by his duty to God. Then there is his wife, on whom he is supposed to beget heirs, and his Captain, whom he is sworn to obey on the field of battle. In Paris, D’Artagnan – and Brasseur, and all of the other young men in their positions – must be contented with scraps. Attention, affection, and care are measured out carefully under the watchful eyes of their seniors, who ensure that no man forgets himself or his place in society too far. In the city D’Artagnan is considered a distraction to his master. An indulgence. One permitted – even acknowledged to be necessary under certain circumstances, this campaign being one of them – but one carefully to be controlled, lest Athos be seduced from his duty.

But encamped with his soldier-brothers around La Rochelle, Athos may relax. Paris, with its glittering lights and watchful eyes, is far in the distance. Here everyone’s attention is focused on the Rochellais. The King is at Estree. The Cardinal – and the Captain – are at La Pierre. The court waits at Villeroy. They are here to smite their enemies, not to worry about the bed-partners of Musketeers.

Here, Aramis and Porthos may retire early to the tent they share, and no one pays attention, except to make the occasional crude, good-humored joke when one of them cries out particularly loud. Around the fire, Besson and Cazal can lean comfortably into each other, relaxed, simply enjoying each others’ warmth and company. And Havet may reach forward and pull Brasseur into his lap, settling the young man down on his spit-wet cock with a groan, head tipping back as Brasseur bounces obediently and enthusiastically on the length spearing him open.

D’Artagnan glances over at that, eyes caught and held. He knows now what it feels like to be fucked with nothing but spit to ease the way. Since they came on campaign, the advance force for an entire nation, supplies have been too tight to waste on pleasure. Everything from cooking oil to axle-grease are measured and metered in precise increments. Lubrication is a luxury that can only be afforded in Paris.

So far Athos has been careful. Merciful. Gentle stretching, considerable caution, and D’Artagnan so aroused that his endorphins turn pain to pleasure. It’s been a gradual initiation to the realities of campaign, though the honeymoon will soon come to an end. D’Artagnan is ready for the next lesson. It will be a hard one; Athos’ boy is still so naively, beautifully selfish. But all things must come to an end.

As D’Artagnan comes obediently around the fire to Athos, de Guignes reaches out and fondles the young Gascon’s firm buttocks with one large palm, chuckling. Athos raises an eyebrow, but allows it; a certain amount of pawing is permissible by long convention. De Guignes’ last lover had returned to his own life recently. The other Musketeer is looking for another. He’d propositioned D’Artagnan, as a matter of fact. And though he was gracious about his rejection, Athos had thought it prudent to arrange for them to share a mess on this campaign, so that de Guignes could enjoy the occasional fondle and show.

D’Artagnan’s not used to Athos being so laid back. He starts in surprise when de Guignes touches him. It’s rapidly suppressed but no less pleasant to watch. Gratifying, too, is the way D’Artagnan speeds up his pace, hurrying to Athos’ side. Something about D’Artagnan’s embarassment is sweet to Athos; maybe it’s the way it reveals D’Artagnan’s continued naivete. Despite the violent beginning to D’Artagnan’s education, despite the months of lessons he’s had since at Athos’ hands – and, occasionally, at Aramis’ and Porthos’ – there is still an innocence about D’Artagnan.

That innocence shows now in the way D’Artagnan hurries away from de Guignes, and the way he keeps tearing his eyes away from Brasseur, getting enthusiastically fucked by Havet in the open night under the stars. And it shows in the way he goes to sit next to Athos on the log.

Athos stops him with a gesture. Instead he urges D’Artagnan to the ground by his feet. D’Artagnan trembles, continuing to dart glances at Brasseur and Havet. He’s still so timid and shy; it’s plain as day that he’s afraid of being similarly exposed. Athos shushes him with a finger on his lips and strokes his hair. It’s still shoulder-length, however impratical that is for a soldier. Athos likes it that way. And Athos likes the way D’Artagnan relaxes against him with a sigh, pressing his whole body up against Athos’ leg, leaning his cheek into Athos’ thigh and and arching under Athos’ petting.

The silence around the campfire stretches, broken only by Brassuer’s pants and the occasional cry from Aramis or Porthos in their tent. Some nights their fire is the loudest in the encampment, as they tell raucous jokes, share wine, and attempt to outdo each other with the noises they can wring from their lovers. Tonight is a quieter night. They made camp here outside La Rochelle two weeks ago, and by all indications, they’ll be here another two weeks at least. The Cardinal’s spies are working slowly. The King and his generals are unwilling to commit without information. And so the army, Musketeers among them, continue to wait. The tension has mellowed into patience. They practice, they keep camp, and at night, under the stars, they relax and enjoy the distance from Paris.

Havet has wrapped his hands around Brassuer’s waist and stopped him from moving so enthusiastically. The older Musketeer slides down to the ground, legs spread on the open earth, leaning back against the log. He’s watching Brasseur struggle and squirm impatiently. Brasseur is only a few years older than D’Artagnan, and still has the coltish look of a young man barely grown into his limbs. He’s also got a reputation for being somewhat petulant. Athos has seen evidence of it, these last two weeks at camp with them. But he’s also seen the way Havet manages Brasseur. Firm. Rules set and then enforced. Punishment and rewards carefully metered.

D’Artagnan has been watching, too. Athos can see it in the way D’Artagnan’s own behavior has changed. The rough edges are smoothing off, slowly but surely. He’s less impetuous now. More disciplined. And he’s gaining a better sense of himself as a member of the complex, interdependent weave of the Musketeers. It’s good for him, this campaign. Good to be out of Paris, good to see the way other masters and novices interact, good to view himself as a part of a greater whole.

Havet loosens his grip slightly. Brasseur is permitted perhaps an inch, and takes it all, moving against his master in short, sharp jerks. Against Athos’ leg, D’Artagnan is trembling. Some of it is the fear born of shyness. But not all of it. Not any more.

Athos leaves one hand in D’Artagnan’s hair, soothing. The other he lets slip down. Not all the way down, not yet. Just to his boy’s chest, under the loose overlapping fabric of his shirt. Beneath his fingers he feels the hard, pebbled peak of a nipple. It strains against the fabric of his shirt, aroused. Athos teases it to greater hardness. Rolls it between his fingers – none too gently; it won’t do to let his boy get used to a soft touch, even when he’s not being shown the error of his ways. D’Artagnan responds beautifully, pressing closer to Athos as he’s been taught, long past his initial reflex to pull away from the confusing point of pleasure-pain.

“Good boy,” Athos soothes, and feels his own thrill of delight when D’Artagnan moans softly at the words, pressing even closer. Athos can feel D’Artagnan’s erection nudging against his ankle, just above the boot. Hard and wanting. Just from this – the cool night air, the slick sounds of lovemaking, Athos’ warmth, and the single point of contact where flesh meets flesh, like a current between them.

“Here.” Athos slides off the log himself, pressing his back to it for support, and tugs D’Artagnan around so that he’s properly between Athos’ legs. D’Artagnan settles like he was made to fit there, sprawled loose-limbed with his legs open and his head tucked under Athos’ chin. Eyes half-lidded, firm skin gilded gold in the firelight, except where it dances red across the thick line of his cock, hard under his trousers.

Athos slides both hands under D’Artagnan’s shirt now, pushing it open to expose more of that firm skin to the night sky. D’Artagnan’s nipples harden more firmly in the chill. Athos takes them in hand, massaging them gently, and leans forward to whisper into D’Artagnan’s ear.

“Watch Brasseur,” Athos instructs quietly, reinforcing each point with a sharp tug on D’Artagnan’s sensitive flesh. “See how well he’s doing? I don’t just mean his technique. Observe his attitude. His enthusiasm is pleasing. It doesn’t matter to him that he’s outside, or that we’re watching, or that anyone from any of the other campfires could wander over and see him. He’s learned to keep his focus elsewhere. On himself and his master.”

D’Artagnan moans each time Athos reinforces the lesson. The older Musketeer can tell it’s an effort for D’Artagnan to keep his eyes open, but he manages it, watching Brasseur raptly as Havet gives him a second inch.

“Brasseur must want to come,” Athos observes idly. One hand abandons its nipple – D’Artagnan keens with the loss – and skates down D’Artagnan’s firm abdomen to circle lightly above his crotch. Teasing, not touching. D’Artagnan’s erection twitches visibly through the fabric of his trousers, but Athos doesn’t even go near his belt. “Havet started playing with him early tonight – he was doing it before you even left to take the buckets to the well, wasn’t he? An hour ago, perhaps? Yes.”

D’Artagnan groans. At the thought? Or at the way Athos’ hand is still teasing, caressing his inner thigh now, so close and so far from where D’Artagnan wants it most?

“Brasseur hasn’t come while I was away?” D’Artagnan asks, voice breathy. Hushed, as if he’s afraid to disturb the scene – Havet holding Brasseur, Athos holding D’Artagnan, and the other Musketeers all watching: Besson, Cazal, de Guignes and Laflèche. Laflèche has his breeches unlaced and his own cock in hand, jerking lazily to the sight. Besson and Cazal are sharing significant looks. A moment later, they rise, still holding on to each other, and disappear into their own tent.

“No,” Athos answers his protégé, letting amusement color his voice. “Why would you think that?”

D’Artagnan blinks rapidly, clearly struggling to be still, as he’s been taught, just to accept what Athos gives him and not reach for more. “I – I just thought – if they started an hour ago – ”

Athos chuckles. His hand retreats from D’Artagnan’s groin, returning to join its partner at D’Artagnan’s nipples. The skin is beginning to flush red now, and D’Artagnan’s breath is coming faster as the sensation trembles on the knife’s-edge between not enough and too much. “Tonight begins a new lesson,” Athos murmurs, and suddenly, unexpectedly, delivers a vicious pinch. “Your pleasure is not the primary object.”

Athos lets go of his boy. D’Artagnan’s whole body trembles, caught between conflicting sensations: relief at the release of pain, and dismay at the cessation of pleasure. Athos lets D’Artagnan slump back, still shaking, and pets him soothingly.

“I don’t say that your pleasure is irrelevant,” he goes on, once D’Artagnan has recovered himself somewhat. “You’re beautiful when you come undone. I love seeing you that way.”

D’Artagnan presses closer to Athos, seeking comfort from the source of his discomfort. He seems to have nothing to say. Athos is familiar with this state from the last months of their relationship. Pass a certain point, and all of the bratty mouthiness simply falls away, leaving a young, trembling boy who wears his heart in his eyes and speaks only in wordless moans.

“But your first concern must always be to serve,” Athos continues. “So it is with all of us. Even the first among us serve others – for there is always a higher master. I serve the Captain; the Captain serves the King; the King serves God.”

Brasseur moans, wanton and desperate, throwing his head back to expose the long line of this throat. His hair tumbles back. It shakes, loose, around his shoulders. He moans again.

Athos ignores this, keeping his focus on D’Artagnan. “A true son of France learns to set his own needs aside in pursuit of the greater good. As you rise in life, you will find that you have more masters, not fewer. One day you will have to return to tend your family’s lands. One day you will marry. One day you will attend at court as a noble instead of a soldier.”

D’Artagnan is taking deep, shaking breaths. He manages a nod, though it’s jerky.

“Pleasing many masters is considerably harder than pleasing one.” Athos touches D’Artagnan again, a simple touch, his hands on his boy’s shoulders. “You will find that the time and energy you have to spend on pleasing yourself will dwindle. One day it may even disappear completely.” Athos tugs, gently, on D’Artagnan’s hair. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Athos,” D’Artagnan whispers humbly.

“Don’t despair,” Athos counsels. “It’s not an inescapable trap.” He tugs again, redirecting D’Artagnan’s attention to Havet and Brasseur. “Watch.”

Across the fire, Havet has tightened his grip and begun bucking, slamming Brasseur up and down with shocking force. Brassuer cries out again, loud in the stillness of the night. He’s got both of his hands on Havet’s shoulders, bracing himself; Havet’s hands are wrapped around Brasseur’s waist. Neither of them are paying any attention to Brasseur’s cock. It bounces between them, shiny with precum and red in the firelight, looking hard and painful with how swollen it is.

“Watch,” Athos repeats, and slides one hand down all at once to lay against D’Artagnan’s own cock, still covered.

Havet roars and pulls Brasseur down one final time, hips pumping as he fills Brasseur with seed. And Brasseur arches back, a second shocked cry erupting from him, as he comes, untouched, all over them both.

Athos presses his palm down against D’Artagnan’s groin. He grinds down, providing his boy that last bit of desperately needed friction. It’s just the far edge of too hard, but D’Artagnan jerks under him regardless, gasping and shoving into Athos’ hand as he, too, spills helplessly.

“Pleasure may be found in service,” Athos murmurs as D’Artagnan moans, hips twitching with the urge to pump, ruthlessly suppressed by the force of Athos’ grip. “Subordinate yourself to your masters, be satisfied with what you are given, and accept their pleasure as your own.”

After a moment, Athos takes his hand away. There’s a dark, sticky stain spreading in the center of D’Artagnan’s trousers. Some of it has soaked through onto Athos’ hand; he wipes it off on D’Artagnan’s shirt, pinching a nipple one more time for good measure. The shock of it makes D’Artagnan jerk again. Without the endorphins running through his system any more, the touch is more painful than anything else. _Pain makes the lesson stick_ , Athos’ old master had always told him. As with so many things Athos has learned as a novice, that had been the truth.

“Shh,” Athos shushes, petting D’Artagnan’s hair. The boy trembles against him, equal parts aftershocks and fear. “It’s a hard lesson, I know.”

D’Artagnan nods against him. He tips his head back, looking up pleadingly at Athos. His lashes are wet.

Across the fire, Brasseur is slumped against Havet, nearly unconscious. Havet stands and picks him up without apparent difficulty, taking him to their tent. Laflèche had come at some point during that; he’s tucked himself back away and, with de Guignes, is banking the fire and attending to the last few nighttime chores.

Athos thanks them with his eyes. They both nod and retreat, giving Athos and D’Artagnan privacy. They’re sharing the fifth tent, though they’re not lovers. Laflèche prefers to watch.

Alone with Athos, the fire beginning to die down, D’Artagnan shivers. He presses himself closer against Athos, like he’s trying to make them into one person. It’s darker and colder without the fire. D’Artagnan’s shirt is open and his pants are wet with his own release. His warmth is leaching out from him and being greedily absorbed by Athos’ body.

“You haven’t come,” D’Artagnan says, seeming to realize this suddenly. He’s tucked into Athos so closely that the press of Athos’ hot cock against him must be searing.

“No,” Athos agrees, watching him. “You’ll have to take care of that.”

D’Artagnan glances down. “Do you want my mouth?” he asks doubtfully, seeming to sense that that’s not right.

“No,” Athos repeats. He watches D’Artagnan process that.

“You want to fuck me,” D’Artagnan says. He leaves out the rest, but Athos says it for him.

“Yes, I want to fuck you,” he says calmly. “You’re going to take my cock. We’re on campaign, and our supplies are limited, and can’t be wasted. So you’re going to take my cock with nothing more than spit to slick the way, and you’re going to do it without the benefit of your own arousal to dampen the pain, because you’ve already come tonight.”

D’Artagnan’s lower lip trembles. Wetness clumps his lashes, but doesn’t overflow. He’s not really crying. Athos had trained him out of that early. But a few tears can be beautiful, too.

The boy doesn’t argue, though. Doesn’t resist when Athos pulls him to his feet and leads him to their tent. For that, Athos is proud of him, and shows it in the way he lets D’Artagnan continue to cling to him. Such a need for comfort can be a weakness all its own, but D’Artagnan is still young; there’s no need to break him of it yet. And he’s being so good. This is his reward.

Athos leads him inside their tent and lays him down on the bedroll.

“How much will it hurt?” D’Artagnan whispers. He’s sprawled on his back where Athos has left him. His only movement is the rise and fall of his chest and the gentle sweep of his lashes as he blinks.

“No more than it must,” Athos answers him, disrobing.

D’Artagnan takes a deep breath. He trembles faintly. Athos waits patiently, not speaking, letting D’Artagnan fight his own internal battle. Control over his own body is not something Athos can give him; D’Artagnan can only win it for himself.

When D’Artagnan lets his knees fall apart, Athos knows his boy has won the first step.

“It’s a hard lesson,” D’Artagnan says, almost to himself. He looks up. Through wet-clumped lashes, his eyes are pleading and defiant at all once.

“Don’t worry,” Athos comforts him, calm and reassuring. “I won’t expect you to learn it all at once.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm open to prompts of what people would like to see - make me a suggestion in the comments if you have one, and we'll see what sparks the muses :)


End file.
